


Strings That Lead to Nowhere (The Caring is Not a Weakness Remix)

by coricomile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 03:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4206174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is not a man of sentiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strings That Lead to Nowhere (The Caring is Not a Weakness Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Indelible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/425903) by [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill). 
  * In response to a prompt by [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill) in the [remixmadness2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixmadness2015) collection. 



Mycroft has never been a man of sentiment. Caring leads to weakness which leads to haste which leads to mistakes. Mycroft cannot afford to make mistakes. Every action he makes is important and one slip, one careless gesture, can bring the world crashing down around him. Perhaps Sherlock’s melodrama has begun to rub off on him.

He was content, before. There was no need for anyone but himself in his life, with given exceptions for his petulant child of a brother. Work filled his days and the constant pursuit of knowledge filled his nights. He slept, if he could, but mostly he read and watched and observed. The world was fascinating to watch from the outside, without the pesky business of being involved. 

And then came John Watson. Simple, kind, imaginative John Watson. John Watson, who would not break under the weight of pressure put upon him by absolutely everything. John Watson, who kept up with Sherlock without complaint.

Caring begins with small actions and grows, rippling out like a pebble in a lake. It begins with tea, with kind, honest questions about Mycroft’s life outside of the government. It begins with the clucking, anxious worry of a doctor. As much as Sherlock has accused him of being anything but, Mycroft is merely a man. 

John sleeps, now, flat on his front, face pressed into the down pillows at the head of Mycroft’s bed. Some nights, he will allow himself to stay, exhausted from the chase, from Mycroft’s hands on his body. He refuses to leave Baker Street, to leave Sherlock to his own devices, and Mycroft does not fault him. John keeps Sherlock busy, keeps him from reverting into a slowly ticking bomb, and Mycroft- Mycroft _loves_ him for it.

It is not a thing Mycroft can say. Affection has never come easily to him, even though it was showered upon him as a child. When he is with John, he tries to channel Mummy. Tries to mimic the soft way she could hold him without demanding things, tries to find her constant words of comfort and care, but it feels as manufactured as it is. John is no Holmes. Even after all this time, he cannot look at someone and _know_ them, but he doesn’t need to. He knows Mycroft, and he is not afraid to kiss him to silence him when he knows Mycroft is overwhelmed.

Mycroft looks at the plane of John’s back, solid and strong. He touches the sleep warm skin, skirting the nearly endless scars. John is a brave man, a good man, unafraid to throw himself in front of knives and bombs and bullets. His selflessness is stupid, careless, but Mycroft thinks he would no longer be the same man should he stop. 

Carefully, Mycroft reaches over him to grab the biro on the nightstand. It’s heavy, a solid gold trifle given to him in a poor attempt at bribery. John favors the cheap, disposable ones sold by the dozens in cardboard boxes, too aware of his own forgetfulness to buy something more substantial, but Mycroft has always had a fondness for things with permanence. 

He does not write _Dear John_. The connotations alone are foreboding, but it feels too informal. Too much like work. Too much like Mycroft. Instead, he simply begins. He has always calculated his words, used manipulation to get what he needs, but this once he lets his words flow freely, untempered by John’s inability to talk back. It is a cowardly way, but Mycroft has never seen himself as a hero.

When the biro passes over John’s shoulder blade, John stirs, huffing a soft breath into the pillows. He sleeps soundly but lightly, and it was foolish to think he wouldn’t wake. But what’s done is done, and Mycroft never leaves anything unfinished.

“Sorry to have woken you,” Mycroft says softly. John hums, a deep sound that barely escapes his chest. He gropes blindly in the sheets, finally finding Mycroft’s hand and pulling it forward lazily. His lips are chapped, rough, as they skim over Mycroft’s knuckles.

It’s a small action, barely considered before acted out, but it makes Mycroft’s chest tighten and ache. Gingerly, he places the tip of the biro against John’s skin again and resumes. 

“Writing longhand helps me think,” Mycroft says when John grunts at him. It’s an entirely uncultured, nearly repulsive sound. It shouldn’t make fondness well up inside of him. 

“Work too hard,” John mumbles. His eyes are closed, the lines of his face smoothed out cleanly. This is an argument they’ve had before, John vibrating with the annoyance of having the same conversation with both Holmes brothers and Mycroft unable to free himself from his duty. Doubtlessly, they will have the argument again.

“It’s not work,” Mycroft says. He smoothes his fingertips over the line of John’s spine, feeling the loose muscles, and longs to be closer. It’s an impossible notion. John is under him, touching him, but he still feels so far away. A dream that Mycroft is forever in danger of losing the edges of. “Go back to sleep.”

“What’s it say?” John asks. Despite himself, Mycroft smiles. Stubborn man. A man made to wrangle impossibilities at every turn. Mycroft leans in, smells the warm scent of John’s skin and soap, and presses a kiss to the tender skin below John’s hairline. His own small action, barely considered but vastly important.

“It’s top secret,” Mycroft says into the short hairs he finds there. “A matter of national security.” He moves the pen down, arcing over the fine muscles of John’s lower back. He’s nearly finished. In the morning, most of the words will be illegible. They will have been consumed by the rub of the sheets, the dampness of John’s sweat. It doesn’t matter. Mycroft will have put them into the world. He will have said his piece. That is all that matters.

“Hint?” John asks. Mycroft soothes a hand through his hair, stroking the soft skin behind his ear. There is more grey now than when they first met, but it is distinguishing. John has lived through a great deal, and it shows on every inch of him, his life’s story laid out for anyone to take and see and know.

“It’s a letter,” Mycroft answers, hesitating only a moment before allowing himself to write those blasted words. Human language is so lacking in comparison to what he feels. _Love_ is a small word, misused by nearly every person who has ever uttered it, but it will have to do.

“To who?” John squirms a bit, trying to refind his comfort, and Mycroft lets himself accept that his time is up. He signs his name at the tender skin above John’s buttocks, work well done, and places the biro back onto the nightstand. “What’s it say?”

Mycroft slides under the covers and John moves towards him, gravitating to his heat. He latches on, ever tactile, and tucks his head under Mycroft’s chin. Mycroft closes his eyes and presses the feeling into his mind. He will not forget these small moments of comfort. 

“It’s a secret,” Mycroft whispers, letting his lips rest against the delicate crown of John’s head. John will not make him discuss it in the morning, but he will allow Mycroft to wipe away his confession in the shower. He will smile with his eyes as much as his mouth when he leaves. He will linger, even in his absence.

“Is not. I know, anyway,” John murmurs, already half asleep again.

“Yes. I suppose you do.” Mycroft holds him, lets himself be held, and closes his eyes. Caring is a weakness, but Mycroft has never been a strong man.


End file.
